


Confidence Men

by xylodemon



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-01
Updated: 2005-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life, liberty, and the art of the two-man con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidence Men

**Somewhere in Kansas  
1997**

Kansas is flat.

It burns tawny and bright in the orange of the horizon, sunset washing it the color of wheat and spun-gold hair. Businesses and homes reach for the sky, stretching upward in a parody of a landscape. Wednesday watches US 81 amble away from him in a line so straight it might have been paved with the aid of a slide rule, and he understands why the first people to move west had thought this miserable plain was endless.

The Driftwood Lounge is one story and a sad excuse for a hillside. It clings to the Arkansas River, quietly molting tan paint chips onto a sidewalk the same steel-gray as the water. Pink and green neon flicker in its windows, and Credence Clearwater Revival pushes Bad Moon Rising through the chinks in the walls and the space under the door.

Smoke lingers in a heavy cloud around the doorway, mingling with the usual smells associated with bars -- beer, whiskey, sweat, fried foods. The crowd is medium sized, fairly tame, and when Wednesday steps inside the music grows louder, warning him: don't go around tonight, well it's bound to take your life.

He finds Loki in the rear of the bar, feeding quarters to jukebox that's tucked between the bathroom and a booth occupied by three boys who don't look old enough to drink. Its pink and green display matches the signs in the window and clash horribly with the five o'clock shadow Loki calls hair. His wifebeater suits the crowd, and the back pocket of his jeans bulges around a pack of Marlboro Reds.

Wednesday watches him for a moment, silent. The snake coiled around Loki's bicep watches Wednesday in turn, faded the midnight blue of india ink bleached by the sun. Loki's name sprawls across his back in the blocky, angular runes of a language few people in this land can read.

Professors. Scholars. Religious reconstructionists. Gods.

"What do you want?" Loki doesn't bother to turn around.

"I want to talk," Wednesday says carefully. A waitress passes him; the tray in her hand is a forest of pineapple slices and paper umbrellas.

"We don't have anything to talk about," Loki says. His fingers tighten on the frame of the jukebox, knuckles turning white. It clicks, whirs, drops a new forty-five onto the turntable behind its grimy plane of glass.

"After what, almost fifty years?" Loki asks.

"I thought perhaps--" An electric guitar shrieks over Wednesday's words, followed by a deafening, animalistic growl, and Wednesday frowns at the jukebox. "What is this?"

"Pantera," Loki says. The scars around his mouth make his smile sinister. "You wouldn't like it."

"No, I probably wouldn't."

Loki pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lights it with a blue Bic, and gestures Wednesday to a nearby booth with a tilt of his head. It's empty, but the tabletop is dirty, and Loki ashes into the remnants of someone else's whiskey neat.

"Talk," he says.

"What are you doing these days?" Wednesday asks. A half-empty bottle of Corona sits between them, separates them like a wall, and Wednesday pushes it away with the back of his hand.

"A little of this, a little of that," Loki replies, waving at a waitress. "Making a living."

She's short, curvaceous, and wearing too much eyeliner. She nods her head enthusiastically at Loki's order of a Seagrams and Coke, her ponytail swaying. Wednesday passes.

"Are you living here?" Wednesday asks. He's never known Loki to make anywhere his home.

"For now." Loki drops his cigarette butt into the leftover whiskey neat and lights another. His blue Bic makes a harsh, plastic sound when it hits the table.

"Do you have your own place?" Wednesday asks.

"After a fashion," Loki replies, pointing at a leggy blonde at the pool table. Her hair spills to the middle of her back in perfect curls, and her denim shorts barely cover the curve of her ass.

"Girlfriend?"

"Someone's." The corners of Loki's mouth twitch -- the smile of a man who's always preferred other men's wives.

Wednesday sighs, rests his hands on the table. In the poor light, his fingers seem as gray as his suit. The silence between them is strained, and Wednesday welcomes the interruption that comes when the waitress brings Loki's drink. Loki pays her with a five and a leer, and knocks half of it back in one swallow.

"I think we should start working together again," Wednesdays says.

"I think you should fuck off."

"What have you got to lose?"

"What have I got to gain?" Loki counters. He finishes his drink and slams the empty glass on the table. "I've got a roof over my head, a blonde in my bed every night, and a city full of people with more money than wit."

"Someone else's roof, and someone else's blonde," Wednesday argues. The smoke from Loki's cigarette tickles his nose and throat, and he thinks he should have ordered a drink. "And you may be good at your game, but you'll eventually give yourself away if you keep working alone."

"Let's see," Loki begins, drumming his fingers on the table. "I can run petty street cons on my own, or I can run petty street cons with a washed up old man who will always be trying to get his hands on my share."

"I'm not just any old man."

"Prove it," Loki says.

Loki's eyes are bright, too light to be called hazel, and tarnished with a familiar glint. The jukebox falls silent, filling the room with the clink of glass and muted conversation, then plays the song it just finished.

"You ordered a Jack Daniel's?"

"I believe I did," Wednesday says, smiling. It's not a waitress, but Loki's blonde. She seems confused, looks at the glass as she's setting it down like she never seen it before in her life. "Thank you, my dear." She turns without a glance in Loki's direction, and his fist clenches on the table.

"Bastard," Loki snaps.

"Always have been," Wednesday concedes. He sips his drink; the whiskey is sharp and cool on his tongue. "I'm leaving when I finish this," he adds, gesturing at Loki with his glass. "Are you coming with me?"

The music suddenly feels louder, angrier: I'm born again, with snakes eyes, becoming, godsize.

"Yeah," Loki says. He flicks the end of his Bic and it spins like a top. "I guess I am."

  
**Redford, Michigan  
**  
(Three Card Monte)  


Telegraph Road cut through Redford like a knife. Heat rose heavily from the blacktop, shimmering in the late afternoon sun. A horn blared with the low sound of a foghorn, lost under the white noise of Interstate 95.

Loki lounged against the side wall of Barno's Liquor Shop, his head tilted against the bricks. A rickety card table waited patiently in front of him, draped in a stained square of black felt. He toyed idly with a deck of playing cards -- Hoyle, standard issue, purchased from Barno fifteen minutes ago for $2.95.

He lit a cigarette just as two men came around the corner. Their skin was tanned a deep, dark brown, and they wore the dusty denim and plaids of migrant workers. The shorter one had a red baseball cap turned backward on his head, and he paused, glancing curiously at the card table.

"Care to find the lady?" Loki asked grandly. He held his hand out, flipping over the top card, and the Queen of Hearts peeked out from underneath his thumb. "What do you say?"

Red Cap shrugged, murmuring softly to his companion in Spanish. Loki dropped the Queen on the table, and dealt out two more cards -- a Nine of Spades on her right, and a Seven of Diamonds on her left. Red Cap's friend shook his head and grunted into his brown paper bag.

"C'mon, take a chance," Loki urged through a cloud of smoke. He smiled at Red Cap; his friend, with his disinterest, was not worth Loki's time. "Double your money."

"How much?" Red Cap asked.

"Ten will get you twenty," Loki replied. He brushed a hand over the orange-blond stubble on the top of his head, and tucked the rest of the deck in the back pocket of his jeans. "Twenty will get your forty."

"Too much," the friend said. He sipped his badly concealed can of Budweiser, and the paper bag crinkled loudly under this fingers.

"Double your money," Loki countered.

With another grunt, the friend turned to leave. Red Cap hesitated, glancing at the table, then Loki, and Loki smiled, his scars twisting with the curve of his lips.

"Double my money, you say?"

Wednesday stepped away from the payphone at Loki's left, setting the receiver down with a click. A tree-shaped pin glittered on his tie, and his tan suit -- three-piece with sepia pinstripes -- was out of place in both the neighborhood and the heat.

"Ten will get you twenty, and twenty will get your forty," Loki said. He hit his cigarette and flicked it into the gutter.

Nodding, Wednesday pulled his wallet from his pocket, selected a bill from the center, and handed it to Loki. It was a twenty; crisp, green, and as fake as the license plates on the late-model El Camino they had parked around the corner.

Loki folded the cards in half lengthwise, peaking them up like tents. He turned them over one at a time, and he saved the Queen for last, tapping her once on the crown before flipping her on her face.

"Watch her, now." Nine to Queen to Nine to Seven. "Round and round she goes." Nine to Queen to Seven to Nine. "Where she stops, nobody knows." Seven to Nine to Queen to Nine.

He stopped suddenly, lifting his hands up and away, and looked at Wednesday expectantly. Wednesday made a thoughtful noise, scratching at his beard, and Loki pointed at him with his left hand.

"Here," Wednesday said. He tapped the card on Loki's left.

Loki flipped the card with the tip of a finger, and Wednesday smiled down at the face of the Queen.

"We have a winner!" Loki said. He paid Wednesday with his own twenty, folded to look like two, and Wednesday put it in his pocket. "Another round?"

"Why not?" Wednesday asked cheerfully. He retrieved the twenty, unfolded it at his side, and handed it back over.

"I'll play," Red Cap said, holding out two wrinkled fives.

"All right." Loki set the Queen in the center and turned her over. "Round and round again." Nine to Seven to Queen to Nine to Queen. "Where is she? Where's the lady?" Seven to Queen to Nine to Seven to Nine to Queen. "What do you say?"

"Here," Red Cap said, pointing to the center card. Loki reached out, his hand passing over the card on the right before hovering over the one in the center. He blinked, and Wednesday gestured to the card on Loki's left.

Loki flipped them both over, showing the Queen in the center. Red Cap whooped, and Loki paid him with Wednesday's twenty.

"Another round?" Loki asked.

"No, thank you" Wednesday said shortly. "Need to meet the wife," he added, tapping his watch.

"I will," Red Cap said.

His friend set his beer on the sidewalk and fished a ten out of his pocket. "Me too."

Loki smiled. Wednesday turned and walked away, headed in the direction of their El Camino.

  
**Texarkana, Arkansas  
**  
(The Bank Job)  


The snow fell lightly, like powdered sugar, dissolving almost instantly under Wednesday's feet. It iced the sidewalk and clung to the bushes, frosted Commercial National Bank's neatly manicured lawn.

Wednesday huffed, his breath clouding around his face, and smoothed a hand over his sweater-vest. It was a deep maroon, trimmed with gray to match his charcoal slacks, and the iron-on patch on his jacket read Gregory Jones.

He thought Gregory Jones was married, with two kids -- maybe three -- and a girlfriend just over the border in Texarkana, Texas. He'd graduated high school, but had dropped out of community college when confronted with the 'new math', and he worked security because the police academy had turned him away on account of his bum knee.

Moonlight reflected dully off the matte, black finish of his metal case. It was heavy, weighing his arm down, and the handcuff bit sharply into his wrist. A car pulled up to the curb and Wednesday scratched at his nose with a mittened hand, adjusted his pink earmuffs.

The driver was a middle-aged woman with a scarf wrapped around her head, and she clutched a burlap sack to her chest. She paused once she walked around her car, frowning at the taped-off night deposit slot before turning to Wednesday.

"What's going on here?" she demanded. A soft, southern drawl dripped over her words like honey.

"Maintenance, ma'am," Wednesday replied. His peaked cap was the same red as his sweater-vest, and he tucked his clipboard under his arm to tip it at her.

"Maintenance?" she repeated shrilly. The wind ruffled the lapels of her overcoat, revealing a navy blue suit, suntan pantyhose, and sensible shoes. Wednesday smelled food and cooking oil, thought maybe she was a restaurant manager. "What kind of maintenance?"

"I don't rightly know," Wednesday said, ducking his head apologetically. "I wasn't given the specs. They just told me to stand here and take deposits until morning."

"I don't believe it," she said, giving Wednesday a skeptical look.

"I have a letter from the branch manager," Wednesday explained. He smiled kindly and offered her the clipboard. "It should be the last page."

She subsided, accepting it with a sigh, and flipped past a few sheets of carbon receipts. Wednesday hummed quietly as she read and straightened himself out, pulling at his jacket and brushing snow from his shoulders. She looked up suddenly, pursing her lips, and handed him the clipboard.

"That's fine," she said. "I reckon it's not your fault." She fished a plastic deposit bag full of cash and credit card slips from the depths of her burlap sack and handed that over as well. "But I'll need a receipt."

"Of course," Wednesday replied. He ducked his head again, and she smiled.

"It's awfully cold tonight," she remarked. "You'll catch your death being outside like this."

"Oh, I don't mind so much," Wednesday said. The deposit slip was hidden inside a bundle of twenties, and he fussed with the bag until it was visible. "I'm used to the cold."

"You from up north?" she asked.

"About as north as you can get," he replied. He copied down her account number (043-77-2891) and the amounts ($5,096.32 cash and $397.82 credit). "If you could just sign here."

"Like Maine, north?" she asked, taking the clipboard. Her signature was illegible, flourished.

"Vinland," Wednesday replied, tearing the receipt free.

"Where's that?"

"Canada," Wednesday said. "Newfoundland, actually." He folded the bag around the yellow copy and stowed it in his metal case. "But I've been here a long time."

A chill wind whipped up, and a newspaper rustled past them on the sidewalk. It began to snow harder, flakes fluttering down to catch in Wednesday's earmuffs and cling to his nose. She shivered, tucked her hands under her arms.

"Thank you for choosing Commercial National Bank," Wednesday said, handing her the white copy. "Have a good evening."

She hurried away, slipping once on the wet sidewalk, and her car sputtered loudly in protest to the cold when she started it. A police cruiser appeared on E 24th Street as she pulled away, and it quickly made a right, hurrying to take her place.

The passenger window rolled down with a squeak. The cop closest to Wednesday was a black man in his late twenties, and he leaned out the window, gave Wednesday a considering look.

"Evening, officers," Wednesday said.

"Evening," the cop returned. "Can we have a word?"

"Of course," Wednesday said. He approached, armed with a business card.

It claimed to be from Guardsmark Inc over on Jefferson, but the number belonged to a payphone at the Albertons about a mile down State Line Avenue. Wednesday smiled as he offered it to the cop, and hoped Loki hadn't fallen asleep.

  
**Tempe, Arizona  
**  
(The Pigeon Drop)  


Arizona Mills sprawled lazily across a full city block, an oasis in the desert, an air-conditioned plaster and neon temple to the sun. A Saguaro cactus waited outside the main entrance like a security guard, tall, menacing, armed with its status as the state flower and porcupine-like spines.

The parking lot was a furnace, stoked by a dry, searing heat that made Loki's throat feel scratchy and swollen. His suit was stifling, and too tight across the shoulders. He tugged on his sleeve, covering the miniature rune compass inked on the inside of his right wrist, and tried to breathe. It wasn't often that Wednesday let him play the straight guy.

Loki loitered in front of a red BMW that wasn't his with a disconnected cell phone to his ear. His briefcase was as shiny and black as his wingtips. The Rolex on his left wrist was fake, and it didn't work, but it glittered like gold in the sun.

A woman walked out of the mall -- short, round, salt-and-pepper hair. She looked to be in her late fifties, and carried a purse that matched her floral separates. She paused just outside the door, setting her shopping bags on a stone bench to pour over her receipts.

"Excuse me?" Wednesday tapped her politely on the shoulder. In his khakis and white linen Guayabera shirt, he looked like a tourist. Or a retired plastic surgeon. "Did you drop this?"

He handed her a small envelope of the kind businesses sent out with their billing statements. It contained five thousand dollars in hundreds that weren't worth their weight, and a mutuel ticket from the greyhound park in Apache Junction.

"I'm sure I didn't," she said. She shook her head, but Wednesday pressed it on her. She dropped it with a squeak once she peered inside, and Loki moved a bit closer so he could hear. "Where was it?"

"On the ground," Wednesday said. She stooped to retrieve it, but Wednesday was quicker. "It was just outside the door. I came out right after you, I thought maybe it was yours."

"It's not mine," she replied. "How much is it?"

Wednesday thumbed quickly through the bills. "Five thousand, maybe more." He pulled out the mutuel ticket, and she frowned at it.

"Gambling money," she said, sniffing. "Serves them right for losing it."

Wednesday made a noncommittal noise and glanced around, scratching his beard. The area was empty, save for the security cactus and a homeless man hunkered down on the bench opposite them.

"They're probably gone," Wednesday said thoughtfully.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "Are you going to keep it?"

"It's--" Wednesday paused as a group of teenage girls in tiny shirts and tinier shorts giggled their way inside the mall. "It's an awful lot of money," Wednesday admitted, lowering his voice, "but I don't know if I should."

She looked at Wednesday uncertainly. She started to speak, and Loki approached, thumbing a key on the cell phone as he slipped it in his pocket.

"Pardon me, but I couldn't help overhearing," Loki said. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

"It's not your business," Wednesday said. His voice was clipped, short, and he gave Loki a suspicious look.

Loki smiled, and produced a business card with a flourish. "Thomas Burlington, Esquire. Income tax, financial planning, and estate administration." The card was cream-colored, and the embossed writing winked a silvery-gray in the sunlight.

"Found money is an important matter," Loki continued, handing another business card to the mark. She took it, smiling thinly. "It's yours for the taking, if the owner cannot be located, and if you've followed the proper procedure."

"Procedure?" she asked. "What procedure?"

"A police report must be filed, explaining where the money was, and where you were when you found it." Loki found himself warming to Thomas Burlington, Esquire -- young, fresh out of law school, working at a successful firm in Phoenix, the kind that was so large the partners called the new people 'son' because they couldn't remember their names. "You must also fill out a 1724-B -- it's a standard form, five pages, triplicate, accompanied by a finders fee."

"Finders fee?" Wednesday asked. "What's that?"

"A good faith deposit, as it were," Loki replied, making a vague, circular motion with his hand. "A security, ensuring you were truthful concerning how you found the money. It's returned to you, of course, if the original owner is located."

"What if he's not?" she asked.

"It's still returned to you, as well as the found money," Loki replied. "They almost never are, though. Especially in situations like this." He plucked the envelope from Wednesday's hands, pulling out the mutuel ticket. "A gambler, possibly a drifter. That type never stays in one place too long." He gestured over their shoulders to the onramp for Interstate 10, which led to Phoenix, and ostensibly, Los Angeles. "He's probably on his way out of town as we speak."

"Let me get this straight," Wednesday asked. "I fill out a form, pay a finders fee, and if they don't find this guy, I get the money back?" Loki smiled, nodding. "How long?"

"It varies from jurisdiction to jurisdiction," Loki said. "Thirty days, usually."

"And what if I don't?" Wednesday asked. Loki lifted an eyebrow, and Wednesday smiled, almost sheepishly. "Just out of curiosity."

"A fine," Loki replied. "Generally, double the amount owed. If the amount owed is five thousand or more, it's considered a felony. In that situation, there could also be jail time."

"I guess I'd better, then," Wednesday said slowly. He glanced at the mark, who was staring at the envelope in his hand. "Police report, you say?"

"And a 1724-B," Loki reminded. "I can do it for you, if you like. One hundred dollars, flat fee," Loki added, when Wednesday looked about to argue. "I'm headed for the police station after lunch to speak with a client. I can fill out the forms while I'm waiting."

"We could split it," Wednesday offered, turning to the mark. Loki stepped away and mimed a call on the disconnected cell phone. "Twenty-five hundred, each. That's still a lot of money. My wife wants the kitchen cabinets redone. Or I could put it toward a new car for my son."

"Twenty-five hundred," she repeated, glancing at the envelope in Wednesday's hands. "My daughter -- she's at Arizona State -- she wants to go to Europe when she graduates."

"Yes. Yes," Loki said. "How much? Right. Thank you. I'll be down that way in about an hour." He pressed the center button on the phone and slipped it into is suit pocket. "That was a friend of mine from the police station. He said the finders fee is ten percent."

"Ten percent?" Wednesday asked.

"Each," Loki replied, nodding. "Ten percent from each of you. Five hundred dollars."

Grumbling, Wednesday pulled his wallet from his pocket. He paid Loki in four hundreds and five twenties. The mark frowned at the money and shook her head.

"I don't have that much cash," she said. "Can I write a check?"

"The police station doesn't accept checks," Loki said. "But if you make it out to me, I can stop by the bank on my way to the police station."

The check was from Wells Fargo. It was pale blue, and basset hounds looked at Loki balefully as she handed it over.

"Great," Loki said. "I have all the information I need for the forms on your checks. And you both have my card. I'll be in touch."

**Somewhere in Illinois  
3:15 PM, Central Standard Time**

Stateville Correctional Center looms a respectable distance from the highway, concrete twisted around iron, surrounded by barbed wire and held together with wasted lives. Wednesday finds a strange irony in its proximity to the university -- a religious one, no less -- and he wonders if the choice had been deliberate, a tacit warning for those striving to better themselves: this is what happens to people who try to beat the system, this is what happens to people who leave the flock and lose sight of the Lord.

He waits on the shoulder of the Route 53 in a piece-of-shit with bald tires and a dented hood. It smells faintly of marijuana and stale beer, and what's not primer bears the unfortunate result of two brothers who thought a can of exterior flat in burnt orange would make their Pinto the General Lee.

The afternoon sun pales the prison as it glints off its standard, ecru, correctional facility paint-job, makes it look bleached, whitewashed. Wednesday drums his fingers on the steering wheel, fiddles with what passes for the Pinto's stereo. His options are country (Conway Twitty), more country (Garth Brooks), and heavy static threaded with Spanish talk radio.

His coffee is decent for something brewed in a gas station, and he sips it slowly, his hand covering where the plain, white Styrofoam is stamped with Joliet Food Mart & Gas in red. A second cup waits in the plastic, after-market cup holder, steam curling up through the ventilation hole, two creamers and a sugar packet resting on the lid.

A guard patrols the wall, walking north, south, north, south. His distance from both Wednesday and the ground makes him seems small, ant-like, but Wednesday knows the shadow hanging over the shoulder of his tan uniform is a rifle, something automatic that's accurate over long distances and able to fire off several rounds at once.

Wednesday sighs, thinks invisible thoughts. The shrubs lining the highway are dry and brittle, a brush fire waiting to happen, and Wednesday thinks of tans and yellows and browns.

The Spanish talk radio cuts to Mariachi trumpets, and someone taps purposefully on the passenger window. Wednesday jolts, forming a thousand explanations for why he is loitering outside a prison with his motor running. They die on his tongue when he sees it's Loki, and he leans across the seat to unlock the door. Loki looks tired and pale, and he's wearing a UPS uniform instead of inmates oranges or prison guard tan.

"Special delivery," Loki quips as he shuts the door. He tosses his UPS baseball cap into the back and doesn't bother with a seat-belt. The patch over his pocket reads Stanley Jones.

"Did you enjoy your stay?" Wednesday asks pleasantly. Route 53 is empty in the rearview mirror. He pulls off the shoulder and flips a u-turn.

"Hardly," Loki says. He has a small paper sack with him, from which he pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds, a book of matches (also from Joliet Food Mart & Gas), a battered brown wallet, and a fake Rolex. "Another week would have made five years."

"Maybe you'll listen to me next time," Wednesday murmurs. Loki grunts and lights a cigarette, tossing the used match out the window.

Loki spent the six months prior to his arrest scheming lonely old men out of their pension checks by posing as a pretty young woman named Stacy through the mail. His correspondence with them had been both lucrative and disturbingly convincing, but Wednesday had never approved -- he stayed far and away from any scam that left a paper trail, even something as small as post office box under an assumed name.

"You didn't have to stay that long," Wednesday comments. "You could have walked out at any time."

"I could have," Loki agrees. He hits his cigarette, closes his eyes. "It was easier to stay."

"Was it," Wednesday grumbles. He thinks of the five years he spent trying to make a living alone, and his fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

"Don't get me wrong," Loki goes on. "Prison sucked, but it was a roof and three meals, and I met a couple interesting people."

"Oh?" Wednesday asks. He changes lanes, and takes the onramp to Interstate 55. The signs claim it will take them north, toward Chicago. "Like who?"

"Your son."

A chill sweeps over Wednesday's skin, and he hits the gas, swerving around a semi doing fifty-five in the fast lane. Chuckling quietly, Loki flicks his cigarettes out the window and starts fussing with his coffee.

"Don't worry, I didn't touch him," Loki says, peeling the foil lid off a creamer. "Much."

Wednesday's fist hits the side of Loki's jaw with a satisfying crack.

  
**Lancaster, Ohio  
**  
(The Jamaican Switch)  


The snow had stopped before sunrise, but the threat of more lingered in the air like a secret -- quiet, delicate, and elusive. White blanketed everything, except the sidewalk, where winter had been shoveled into neat piles on either side of the beaten path. Loki wrapped his plaid scarf around his neck a second time and stuffed his hands in the pocket of his bomber jacket.

Around the corner, Wednesday's overcoat -- purchased at a Salvation Army two towns over -- was the same blue as the mailbox behind him and several years out of fashion. His flap-eared cap, which was a different plaid than Loki's scarf and lined in synthetic wool, made him look old, harmless, a little confused.

Wednesday stared up at the buildings, glancing around in a reasonable facsimile of awe. His eyes were wide, his mouth was slightly open, and he kept one of his hands tucked inside his overcoat.

He stood directly in front of Fairfield National Bank. The door swung open with a wet scrape, and a young man walked outside. He was tall with sandy hair, and he had the fussy, precise appearance of someone who worked with computers or dangerous chemicals. He paused outside the door, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, and Wednesday swooped in.

"Excuse," Wednesday said slowly. Slouching, he developed both a paunch and an Eastern European accent. "You help me, please?"

Sandy Hair frowned and hefted his cell phone. "What?"

"Sorry to bother," Wednesday said. He almost looked mournful. "I look for... how you say... hotel?"

"There's a Best Western just up Memorial Drive," Sandy Hair replied, pointing. "Have a good afternoon."

"Vait," Wednesday said. He reached out, catching Sandy Hair by the sleeve. "Is first time to America. I come for visit family, but I not find them, and I do not read the English."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Sandy Hair said shortly.

"You help me find hotel, this Best Vestern," Wednesday continued. "I haff money," he added proudly, pulling out from his overcoat the kind of red handkerchief that frequented lumberjack Halloween costumes. It was bundled, and Wednesday untied the knot, flashing a large wad of twenties and fifties. "I pay you, for time."

Sandy Hair stared at Wednesday's money, speechless. Loki stepped out of the alley and approached, his wallet chain jingling softly as it bumped against his leg.

"Hey, Mister," Loki called. He tried to look as shocked as Sandy Hair. "Put that away," he added, pointing to Wednesday's bundle. "You shouldn't flash that much money around, you'll get mugged."

"Mugged?" Wednesday repeated, tilting his head like a cocker spaniel. "Vot is this mugged?"

"If someone sees you with that much money, they might try to steal it," Sandy Hair explained. A woman walked past with her daughter, a girl about seventeen in black tights and a gray, pleated skirt. Loki studied her ass for a moment, and Wednesday surreptitiously cleared his throat.

"You should put it in the bank." Loki said, gesturing toward Fairfield National. "Much safer."

"Oh no," Wednesday said. "Is not safe. Not in my country."

"I don't know where you are from, buddy, but here, it's much safer in a bank," Loki insisted.

"He's right," Sandy Hair agreed. "It's kept in a vault, and it's insured up to a hundred thousand dollars."

"But vot if I vant it back?" Wednesday asked, and Loki tried not to laugh. Each time he spoke, he sounded less like an Eastern European tourist and more like the lead in a B-list vampire movie. "They vill give me?" Wednesday considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I do not think so."

"They will give it back to you," Sandy Hair said. "It's called a withdrawal. You just have to fill out a slip, saying how much you want."

"You show me," Wednesday said, pointing to the bank.

"All right," Sandy Hair said.

The bank was stuffy and overly warm, as if having the heat cranked too high would compensate for the snow outside. Total Eclipse of the Heart as done by a string quartet instead of Bonnie Tyler warbled over the speakers, and a sign parked next to the velvet ropes promised Loki low interest rates on a home loan.

Wednesday watched in fascination as Sandy Hair filled out a withdrawal slip. It was a sickly mint green, and Wednesday questioned him on the meaning and function of his account number.

"How can I help you?" the teller asked. Her name was Michelle, and she had short, boyish hair and a plastic smile.

"I'd like to make a withdrawal," Sandy Hair said.

Michelle checked the slip. "For one hundred dollars?"

"Yes."

"They vill give you more, if you ask?" Wednesday interrupted. He eyed Michelle suspiciously, and she pursed her lips, affronted.

"Can you make that five hundred?" Sandy Hair asked, sighing. Michelle slid the slip over to him, and he wrote the one over with a five.

Michelle took the slip, punched a few buttons on her computer, and opened a drawer on her right. "One, two, three, four, and five," she pronounced, fanning five hundreds on the counter.

"Only that?" Wednesday asked, frowning at both Michelle and the bills.

"I'm sorry," Sandy Hair said. "Could you give it to me in twenties?"

Michelle's face could have been carved from stone, even her plastic smile. She snatched the bills back, rummaged in her drawer, and stiffly counted out five hundred in twenties.

"You see?" Sandy Hair said. "It's easy."

"Vot about you?" Wednesday asked, turning to Loki. "You do also?"

"I can't," Loki said. "Not here. My account's at Community."

"If you're finished," Michelle said leadingly. It was approaching noon, and the bank was starting to fill up with people hoping to cash their checks on their lunch breaks.

"Can I redeposit this?" Sandy Hair asked.

"Do you have a deposit slip?" Michelle countered.

"No."

"Sorry," she said, too sweetly. "You'll have to get back in line."

The Best Western Sandy Hair suggested was seven blocks from the bank. It was a short walk, but they took it briskly, and Loki found himself warming inside his scarf and bomber jacket in spite of the chill. The Best Western's front door was plate glass with gold lettering, and behind it a young girl sat at the reservation desk looking very bored.

"Thank you," Wednesday said, flashing his handkerchief. Loki moved a few feet away to a portable stand selling hot dogs and purchased a coffee. "I pay you for your time."

"No, it's OK," Sandy Hair replied. "It was no trouble." Wednesday put his money away, and Sandy Hair smiled. "If you decide to stay here, you really should put your money in a bank."

"Maybe," Wednesday said carefully. The wind picked up, whipping through the trees. A few leaves fluttered softly to the ground, and a crumpled Sprite can rolled passed them like a tumbleweed. "I think about it."

"It's safer," Sandy Hair pressed.

"Is safe, vith me," Wednesday insisted. "Here, I show you." From a different pocket, he pulled another handkerchief. It was exactly the same as the one he was using as a purse -- red, black-pattered, and soft with use. "Vere is money you got from bank?"

Sandy Hair lifted an eyebrow, but obliged when Wednesday gave him an almost pleading look. He dug it out of his pocket -- five hundred in twenties had been too bulky to fit in his wallet -- and set it in the center of the handkerchief spilling over Wednesday's hand.

"Like so," Wednesday said, tightly knotting the four ends. "Then you keep here." He put it under inside his overcoat and patted his chest. "You put under arm. Is very safe."

After a moment, Wednesday produced a bundle from the depths of his overcoat. It was roughly the same size and weight as the one containing Sandy Hair's money, and full of shredded newspaper.

"Again, I thank you," Wednesday said, smiling. He shook Sandy Hair's hand.

"You're welcome," Sandy Hair said. "Good luck."

Loki slipped down the alley to meet Wednesday at Best Western's back door.

  
**Monroe, Louisiana  
**  
(The Fiddle Game)  


Wednesday's steak was large, bleeding copiously, and a bit on the tough side. He sliced into it, working his knife like a saw, and the serrated edge scraped loudly against the blue-patterned china. His waitress -- an older woman with no name-tag and too much personality -- bustled past with a pitcher of iced tea. Her beehive was greyish-red like Wednesday's beard and harpooned with a blue ballpoint pen.

The speaker above Wednesday's head whispered jazz at a volume so low his ears buzzed with the surrounding conversation. The couple in the booth in front of him were on their first date; the boy nervous and bumbling, the girl shy and prone to blushing for no reason. The two men sitting at an adjacent table were planning a business endeavor over two scotch and sodas and a ridiculously large shrimp cocktail.

Across the restaurant, Loki dined in a twill suit-jacket with patched elbows. His pants almost matched, and the hem was in sore need of a needle and thread. Wednesday couldn't see what he was eating, but it looked reasonably expensive.

"Al'right, here?" His waitress smiled, armed with a coffee pot. He allowed her to refill it, and asked for the check. She threatened him with the dessert menu when she brought it, and he declined politely, handing her enough for the tab and a healthy tip.

Loki slid out of his booth and approached the manager, who was extolling the virtues of the restaurant's vast wine selection to a young man who was probably a new employee. The manager was tall, with a thin frame and thinner hair, and his smile slipped as Loki greeted him with an apology.

"I'm sorry sir," Loki started. He ducked his head and patted at his pockets. "I seem to have left my wallet at home."

The manager lifted an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I just live up the street," Loki continued. "It won't take me more than ten minutes to get it." He paused, hefting his violin case. "I can leave my violin with you, so you know I'll come back."

"Violin?" the manager repeated. The case was battered and scratched, and he eyed it dubiously. "Let's see."

Loki opened the case quickly. The heavy, yellowish light reflected dully off the violin's polished surface.

"Very well," the manager said, sighing. "But if you're not back in ten minutes I am calling the police."

Loki apologized again, and left. Wednesday finished his coffee while the manager stowed the violin behind the bar, then stood, brushing off his sleeves and straightening his tie.

"Excuse me," Wednesday said. The manager was at the wine rack again, boring the same young man to tears. "May I have a word?"

"How can I help you?" the manager asked. He dismissed the young man with a wave, who looked at Wednesday gratefully.

"I couldn't help but notice that young man left his violin with you," Wednesday said. "I was wondering if I could have a look at it."

There was a long pause, where requests for second dates and investment capital stretched over almost inaudible jazz. Wednesday waited, smiling widely, and eventually the manager nodded.

"I don't see why not," he said, gesturing for Wednesday to follow him. He set the case on the bar next to a martini glass that was empty save for its olive, and opened the catches with a series of clicks.

"Oh my," Wednesday gasped. "What a beautiful specimen." He touched the body delicately, careful to use the tips of his fingers. It was made from the kind of balsa wood used for model airplanes and hobby kits, which would score if looked at sharply. "I don't believe it -- I've never seen one up close."

"What?" the manager asked. He leaned forward, peering at the violin with a renewed interest.

"This, my friend, is a Stradivarius," Wednesday replied. "A very unique Stradivarius. Only a hundred or so were made, and less than a handful survived to see this century." His hand flitted up the neck, and he traced the curve of the scroll with his finger. "I'll buy if from you, for fifty-thousand dollars."

The manager blinked.

"Will you sell it to me?" Wednesday pressed, producing gold business card with black lettering. It claimed he was an antique dealer out of Shreveport named Michael Downing, who specialized in rare and expensive musical instruments.

"I'm sorry," the manager said with difficulty. His voice was thin, strained, and his eyes darted between Wednesday and the violin. "It's not mine to sell."

Wednesday paused, tapping his fingers on the bar. It was dotted with sticky patches of spilt drinks, and this close, Wednesday could smell lemon slices and maraschino cherries. The manager studied him, fidgeting anxiously, and a miniature grandfather clock nestled between two bottles of Crown Royal chimed eight with a sound like sleighbells.

"Eight o'clock," Wednesday murmured, sounding as if he was in a daze. "I have to go. I have to see a man about a harpsichord." He reached for the violin, letting his hand hover for a moment. "You have my card," he reminded. "If you change your mind, of he doesn't return for it, give me a call."

Wednesday walked outside to a clear, starry night and a dose of Louisiana humidity. Loki was waiting for him, smoking a cigarette on a wood and wrought-iron bench next the door with his twill jacket over his lap.

"How much?" Loki asked quietly.

"Fifty-thousand," Wednesday said. "You can probably talk him up to about five."

Loki nodded, rising, and stubbed his cigarette in a potted palm.

"I'll be right out."

  
**Nephi, Utah  
**  
(The Spanish Prisoner)  


Each house on W 200 N was a carbon copy of the house next door. The street was an endless row of small, squarish bungalows with miniature second storys in varying shades of blue, yellow and off-white. Children's toys dotted nearly every lawn -- a swing set here, a plastic swimming pool there, a four-wheel drive Powerwheels across the street and two doors over.

Wednesday's navy blue suit matched the dark stripes in his muted, light blue tie. He hummed as he walked, a quiet, toneless buzz, and his red-shot beard was neat, clipped short. He'd acquired a strange calmness, a smoothness to his gait, and he seemed fatherly, almost kind.

Grass crept through the cracks in the sidewalk, bright green and hopeful. A cluster of dandelions waited for them at the end of the block, tiny suns struggling to break their tethers and float up into the sky. Wednesday stepped on them as he turned the corner, crunching them squarely under the heel of his stolen, Florsheim shoe, and Loki saw a scammer, a con man, a displaced and forgotten god of war.

Wednesday paused between two houses and consulted a torn-out page of the Nephi white pages. Nodding, he murmured to himself, pocketed the telephone listing, and started up a neat, brick path that lead to a faded seafoam bungalow with lace curtains in the windows.

"Wait," Loki asked, frowning at both Wednesday and the house. "How do you know she's a member of the church?"

"This is Utah, my boy," Wednesday said firmly. "They're _all_ a member of the church."

Wednesday rang the bell, and brick-lined flowerbeds of cheerful, white daisies watched them from either side of the doorstep. Loki studied the Families Make a House a Home mat, smoothed his crisp, white shirt, and straightened his tie. The name-tag affixed to his pocket said he was Elder Lawrence Keystone from the Payson Mountain View Stake, Payson Fifth Ward.

The door creaked open for a short, elderly woman with bluish hair, and Wednesday smiled.

"Good afternoon," Wednesday said. "Are you Ruth Johnson?"

"I am," she replied brightly.

"I'm Conrad Smith," Wednesday said, shaking her hand. "Bishop of the Payson Fifth Ward." He paused, gesturing to Loki. "And this is Elder Keystone."

"Payson!" she repeated, clapping her hands. "My, you're a long way from home. Come in, come in."

"Thank you Sister Johnson," Wednesday said warmly. "We won't take but a minute of your time."

The inside was bright, quaint, and held together by doilies and plastic dust-covers. She ushered them into a small, tidy living room and pointed them to a pink, floral print couch. It squeaked loudly when they sat, and they disturbed a fat, orange and white cat that was likely, in cat-years, as old as Sister Johnson.

She offered them refreshments, which Wednesday declined before complimenting her on her house. Pictures of her children and grandchildren were strewn across every flat surface, and a burgundy Book of Mormon stamped with Sister Johnson's name in gold sat on a round table at the end of the couch.

"So, what brings you out this way?" she asked. She settled across from them in a large armchair that matched the couch in that it was also pink and floral, and on its second try, the orange and white cat managed to jump into her lap. From across the room, it looked like Morris from the old 9Lives commercials.

"Church business," Wednesday said gravely. "What I'm about to tell you cannot leave this room." He leaned forward, pausing dramatically. "Our Stake President, Douglas Shatford, has been kidnapped."

"What?" She jerked in her chair, and Morris gave a meow that was as close to disgruntled as a cat-noise could get. "By whom?"

"We don't know for sure," Wednesday said. He produced a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket, and passed it to her. It was a standard, cliche ransom note -- cryptic, misspelled threats and a demand for a large sum of unmarked cash, written out in letters clipped from newspapers and magazines. "This was pushed under my office door at the beginning of the week."

"Seven hundred and fifty-thousand dollars," Sister Johnson said softly. Her fingers twisted in Morris' fur.

"The kidnappers are very clear," Wednesday continued. "If word spreads too far, or if the police are notified, he will be killed. I fear I have no choice but to take them at their word."

"What's being done to release him?" Sister Johnson asked.

"That's why I'm here, Sister Johnson," Wednesday explained. "The church accounts have enough funds to cover it, but I'm unable to access them -- not without permission. I would have to contact Salt Lake, questions would be asked, and I just can't risk it."

Sister Johnson stared at him, wide-eyed. One hand flew up to cover her mouth, and the other clutched at the arm of her chair until her knuckles went white and bloodless.

"Elder Keystone and I are going door to door, asking for donations," Wednesday said. "I believe that if I limit the knowledge to a small amount of people in any given area, that it will not spread too widely. I've selected, at random, three of four people from each ward, with the hope that the Lord has prompted me to make the right decisions."

"Of course, of course," Sister Johnson said. "How much have you raised so far?"

"Almost two hundred thousand," Wednesday replied. "We have until the end of the week, and I pray that we'll be able to raise the rest in time."

"Can you take a check?" Sister Johnson asked. "I don't keep cash in the house."

"Of course," Wednesday said. "If you could make it out to me. The kidnappers are demanding cash."

Sister Johnson disappeared down a long hallway that lead toward the rear of the house. She returned a few moments later with her checkbook and a slim, black fountain pen.

"Any particular amount?" she asked. The fountain pen made a harsh, grating sound as she wrote.

"Any amount you are comfortable giving is fine," Wednesday said. "Your money will be returned as soon as President Shatford is released and it is safe to contact Salt Lake," he added. "If I have my way, each and every donation will be doubled."

"Doubled?" She paused, glancing at Wednesday.

"I feel it's only fair," Wednesday replied. "Particularly for the brothers and sisters who are giving toward a man they have not met."

She signed the check with a flourish, ripped it free, and handed it to Wednesday. It was pale pink with silver scrollwork around the edges, and it was made out to Conrad Smith in the amount of five thousand dollars.

"Elder Keystone, would you be so kind as to read from the Scripture?" Wednesday asked.

Loki nodded and reached for the Book of Mormon on the side table. It felt strange in his hands, rough and oddly warm against his fingers. He thought of the passage Wednesday had told him of, and the book fell open in his lap.

"Moroni, Chapter Seven," Loki said. "Verses forty-six and forty-seven."

Sister Johnson smiled.

"Wherefore, my beloved brethren, if ye have not charity, ye are nothing, for charity never faileth. Wherefore, cleave unto charity, which is the greatest of all, for all things must fail," he recited. "But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him."

"Thank you, Elder Keystone," Wednesday said. "Will you lead us in a prayer?"

Loki closed his eyes.

"Dear Heavenly Father. We thank you for this beautiful day, and all the good that has come from it. We thank you for Sister Johnson, and her generosity in our time of need. We pray that you will watch over President Shatford, wherever he may be, and that you will keep him safe until such time that we are able to meet the demands of his captors. We say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

"Amen."

**Somewhere in Wisconsin  
Wednesday**

A chill wind batters the motel from the north, rattling the door and whistling through the cracks in the walls. The radiator in the corner makes a worrying hum as it pretends to work, and the room smells faintly of sulfur and burnt hair. Snow falls delicately, a fluffy, white afterthought that's a strange contrast to the gusts threatening to uproot the trees in the parking lot.

It's cold in a way Wednesday can almost remember, and Loki has been asleep for three days.

The desk slants downward at an odd angle. It's shoved against the wall between the radiator and the window, leaving Wednesday partially warm on one side. Loki's light, periodic snores rip through the white noise of the television, which switched to static from the evening news once the wind picked up and began to act like it meant business.

Wednesday writes forgotten names with a blunt, motel pencil of the type given out at miniature golf courses on a complimentary pad of paper he found in the desk drawer. It's small and squarish, the same off-white of the walls that says dirty rather than deliberate, and Camelot Motel is stamped across the top in curly, green and gold script.

Loki tosses, murmuring in his sleep, his half-formed words lost under the sharp rasp of his limbs struggling against the sheets. Wednesday replies in a language he hopes Loki can still speak, but he doesn't know who either of them are talking to.

The television winks out, grayscale speckles fading quietly to black. It comes back to life suddenly with the violent circus-tent stripes of the emergency broadcast screen. The remote -- bolted to the nightstand -- is out of reach, and Wednesday silences the shrill, piercing shriek with a sharp wave of his hand.

Wednesday turns, finds Loki awake. Loki stretches, sits up, looks at Wednesday instead of the nightstand as he fumbles for his cigarettes. His cheap, liquor store lighter sparks but refuses to catch. He tosses it across the room with a growl and the tip of his cigarette glows orange of its own accord.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Loki's voice is hoarse, thick with sleep.

Wednesday smiles.

Loki kicks the blankets away and stands, scratching irritably at the stubble on his head. The corpse of a pizza sits on the floor, crusts strewn like gnawed bones across the greasy cardboard, and Loki steps around it, taking care to ash on it as he passes.

He's wearing only boxers, green and blue plaid hanging crookedly on his hips, and a small tattoo below his navel disappears under the waistband. It's a single rune, two inches tall and an inch wide, and on the back of his neck Wednesday has one to match. It's not ink, but magic, burned into their skin the day they became blood-brothers in a different life and a different land.

"I'm tired," Loki says.

The wind redoubles its efforts with a howl, slamming against the door and shaking the window so hard it has every right to shatter.

"You've been asleep for three days," Wednesday replies.

"I'm still tired." He yawns loudly and helps himself to Wednesday's coffee -- thick, stale stuff Wednesday brought back from the motel office.

"You're not tired," Wednesday says. "You're dying." He makes a few more notes on the pad, then sets the useless pencil aside. "We both are."

"We've been dying since the Christians came."

"We've been dying since we got here."

Loki inhales, and in spite of the wind, Wednesday can hear paper and tobacco turning to ash.

"What are you writing?" Loki asks.

"Plans," Wednesday replies. He rips the first few sheets off the motel notepad, folds them small, and puts them in his pocket.

"Plans for what?" Loki finishes Wednesday's coffee, pries off the lid, and drops his cigarette butt in the dregs. "Our next job?"

"Our last job," Wednesday says. "Get dressed."

"Why?"

"We're starting a war."

 

\--

 

  
_Loki said:_

Do you remember, Odin, when in bygone days  
we mixed our blood together?  
You said you'd never drink ale  
unless it were brought to both of us

( _Lokasenna_ )


End file.
